“Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. “He sees through it all. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. I want to know—just as much as I can. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. Her features are the same, yet the change has written its mark into her face. Her lips parted, but no words came. " "But you are young!" It was a protest, almost vehement. My servant. He wanted her named Mary. He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her.
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